


You want more and you want it fast

by Runespoor



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Crossdressing, Genderfuck, Identity Issues, M/M, Pseudo-Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-06
Updated: 2011-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-27 00:15:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Runespoor/pseuds/Runespoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jason dons a classic Batgirl costume for sexy reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You want more and you want it fast

**Author's Note:**

> References to underage prostitution and child abuse. Title from Bowie's 'Rebel Rebel'. Takes place after BftC and before Bruce comes back.

Entering Tim's apartment the normal way takes less time than breaking into it, and that's the best Jason can say about this approach. It's not the reason why he doesn't go through the window. He could; Tim's security is far from good enough to keep anyone in the family out, because Dick drops by often enough to get special treatment, and because Tim's ex-girlfriend likes visiting people through windows.

The fun in what Jason's planning resides elsewhere.

That, and the heels would make it too damn annoying to bother with.

Jason aims a wink at the one security camera in plain sight – part of the building's security system, which means it's one Babs hijacks – and smiles around. Chances are there are more. That spot in shadow would be perfect for one of Bruce's cameras, maybe someone else is using it; and it's not much of a bet to assume Tim has his own security camera watching over his own door.

Jason's got cameras covering all the entrances to the different hide-outs he's using, plus cameras to watch over the places where other people might place their own cameras. He doesn't have any spying on the houses of anyone else in the family, though – that's basic decency. If he could, he'd have cameras of his in the Cave, but it's not the same, it wouldn't be the same. There's no point to it without Bruce.

Balancing on the heels, he rings the bell and waits.

It only takes a few moments before he can hear irregular steps getting closer the other side of the door, the hard snap of crutches and the soles of leather shoes striking parqueted floor.

Drake's serious about this playing this out; Jason tells himself he shouldn't be surprised. Drake's always serious about playing stuff out. That's one of the things Jason likes best about him, and also one of the things that make him most relentlessly yearn for throttling the little shit.

Drake also doesn't expect anyone from the family to contact him this way, the minute before the lock turns tells him. Or Drake just didn't expect _him_ , which, really...

The door opens a fraction, giving Jason a slit view of Tim's gaze, too blank to be even suspicious.

He grins winningly, pretending that he's Golden Boy Grayson and nothing and no-one can resist him, and locked doors and girls' thighs just part before him at the drop of a smile. It makes him feel like a right smarmy jackass, but Drake likes that kind of thing. Plus it makes for a fun show for the girls at home.

“Jason,” Drake says, flat as anything. A pang goes through Jason at that, how different it sounds from Bruce trying the same. Jason didn't really expect to ever meet someone who'd make Bruce's dramatics look emotional.

“Hey, baby bro.” He doesn't lose the smile, bending forward a fraction to bring his head closer to Tim's. Less easy than it might sound, he's got like four inches on Drake without the heels. His research on the family told him that the nickname is more or less safe, or at least less fraught than many others. It'll have to do. “You gonna let me come in, handsome?”

Drake's face finishes to close on itself entirely, but his gaze flickers to the security camera, so he steps back and opens the door wider. “Come in,” Drake grinds, like he's mostly afraid of the scene happening where anyone else could see them.

Rich boy's got a point; dressed the way he is, he doesn't exactly look like the kind of nice girls Tim Wayne can throw rumors of engagement around about. The classic Batgirl costume is a real eye-catcher. Jason rocks it so very hard he can't help thinking it's kind of a shame that they can't do this outside, just a little more.

He makes do by throwing his head back, enjoying the feel of the wig, and swishes the cape as he walks past the very lofty, very dignified heir of Wayne Enterprises.

“Best invitation a gal like me can hope for in a fine building like this, I guess,” Jason remarks as he sashays into the flat.

It's got to be at least a little effective; Jason's spent way too many hours watching how to best make his hips move in a mirror for it to fall flat. At least half of it is on the costume anyway, and Jason knows _that_ never misses.

When he gets to the sofa – king-sized white leather thing Bruce would've loved to make playboy on – he leans one elbow over the back and turns around, twisting in a way that's designed to make both his chest and the line of his hip and his thigh stand out.

It takes Tim a moment before he drags his eyes up again. Wherever his gaze was resting – chest or ass or what-the-fuck ever, Jason was too far and Tim's eyes too studiously steadfast for him to guess – doesn't fucking matter.

The tingle of victory, warm and smug, blooms out like sweet, sweet endorphins in the back of Jason's brain.

“So, big boy, you gonna stay over there all night?”

Oh, and the minute tightening of Tim's lips? Is as good as a surrender. Jason toys with the idea of saying so, but he's not in the mood. He didn't make himself all pretty and Batgirl-hot to get into a spat over Bruce's habits.

“What are you playing at, Jason?” There's a beat, and then, as if the question had lost the battle of priorities, “And how did you get in?”

“Front door,” Jason shoots back.

He extends his leg in front of him, pretending to admire how good the costume makes it look. It does, a lot. Jason knows he's got good legs, always have – some have called it his best feature – but with the heels, he looks like something else. No fucking wonder Babs used to own the world on these things.

He hopes she's got a good view on the brat's interior, too, because it'd be a shame if she missed any of it. Not that he wouldn't be willing to give her a private repeat performance if she did; she's always been his favorite.

The next sound coming from Tim's part of the flat isn't Tim choking on the image but him setting the crutches against the wall. Course it is. Always more fun with people who like control. “Wearing this?”

Jason looks back up and shoots Drake a shit-eating grin. “Sure. But don't worry, baby; I'm sure your porter knows better than to rat to your fiancé about little ol' me. Guess the swanky life has its perks, huh?”

Babs won't kill him, even if he's laying it on thick. She's gotta know ten thousand times better than he does about the high demand for prostitutes in yellow go-go heels and slinky black crime-fighters outfits. He was more aware of the similar demand for young boys dressed like Robin.

The corner of Tim's eyes tighten like he's not sure whether Jason's having him on or not. That expression makes the stick up Tim's ass even more obnoxiously glaring than usual, but then again, given the perfectly pressed suit Tim is sporting, maybe the expression isn't all to blame for Jason's sudden urge to beat the snot out of him.

“Why are you here?” Low, tight voice unlike how Tim usually speaks. All the good sons have followed Bruce's lessons better than Jason.

And okay, that's enough. Tonight's supposed to be not about Bruce. Even when he was Robin, Jason got to have a night off. Well, this is his fucking night off.

There's a pun to be made about nights off and nights getting off, but he generously decides to turn his attention back toward Tim, who's walked a bit closer to him.

He could play it outrageously flirtatious, but it's likely to get nowhere fast. Instead he settles on a modicum of honesty. It's not gonna cost him much on the long term.

“Isn't it obvious?”

His back's starting to ache with the strain of the fuck-me position, so he straightens and sits on the back of the sofa. Much more comfortable that way, plus he doesn't feel like he's liable to fall on his face at any time. The heels make simple balance a challenge.

“You'll have to forgive me,” Tim says, icily. “Did you just come over to be insufferable and prance around in Batgirl's old suit? You heard about Damian being a pain in my ass and you want to make sure you still hold the title?”

“Oh no, nothing like that, Jailbait-no-more Wonder.”

He crosses his legs, enjoying the way the boots make his legs look even more than the way Tim's eyes follow the move. Damn, he's this close to asking Babs later if he can keep on putting her costume on from times to times, because it'd make getting laid so fun.

“I just wanted to see if you wanted to fuck.”

With that, he uncrosses his legs, slides down the sofa, and strikes a pose, hips thrusts, legs spread and back arched, throat extended. If there was a pole nearby, he'd strut over to emphasize his point.

Really, there's no reason to waste more time than indulging Tim's intimacy issues already requires; bad enough that he couldn't directly skip to the touching without the annoying exposition. He's only bothering with because of how likely it is that Drake would taze him if Jason started licking his crotch.

That would spoil Jason's mood, and Drake might not be up for sex while they're fighting. It's always strange to meet someone like that.

It's a long minute before Tim reacts, during which Jason hears nothing but the sound of his own breathing and his heart drumming in his ears.

Tim's looking, though. Processing what Jason said, but definitely looking. Or staring, but it's close enough it does nothing to prevent Jason's cock from filling up, just enough to make him feel the difference between his usual boxers and the awesome smooth seamless panties he's wearing now.

“Are you kidding?”

A tone that uncaring is not supposed to be such a turn-on, but it's all Jason can do to keep from grabbing his cock through the costume. They're just gonna have to live with the fact that Jason's knees definitely buckled.

“Never when it's about sex,” he says, and _his_ voice is a little breathless. He runs his hand down his chest, and is gratified to see that Tim's tracking the movement.

“I'm not interested.”

 _Liar._

“Come on, Drake,” Jason cajoles. “You never wanted to put me on my knees and fuck me hard? Cause I've thought about it.” He licks his lips, watches Tim's cheeks turning pink. “I think it'd be awesome.”

Drake's control slipping, Drake taking out all his antipathy on him, Drake cold and furious, making him pay for all the times Jason underestimated him. There's a lot of them; it's not like Jason came back from the grave to be instantly blinded by the potential of insanely hot creepiness he could get his replacement to unleash at him.

It took him a while to realize Tim was all about the watching, the strategy, and the paper-thin control on the massive arrogance, with just enough of a temper to make ribbing him real interesting. Just what Jason likes in a man.

Tim's lip curls up. “You're sick.”

If that's not an invitation Jason has no idea what is, with repressed geniuses.

Slowly, never taking his eyes off Tim's face, Jason slides to his knees, drawing the Batgirl cowl down, until there's nothing but sweaty black locks in his eyes. And crawls closer to him, knees dragging on the wooden floor.

The way Tim's eyes widen makes him feel warm, like it's already approval. Tim doesn't step away.

When he's almost in reach Jason can imagine how the suit will feel under his fingers, the way the fabric will crumple, the tinny noise the zipper will make, how Drake's hands will weight on his head. The intoxicating smell of arousal. Jason's mouth waters at the thought – Drake's cock in his mouth, _Drake-Wayne_ and Jason on his knees for him. And fuck, there's already a moan rumbling in his chest.

He's close enough that he could graze the pants with his fingertips if he reached out when Drake staggers away, as if he'd been shoved.

“Fuck, Jason, no.” There's even emotion in the little creep's voice, a tremor, would you believe it. “You can't-- you can't be serious. You _hate_ me.”

Like that's got anything to do with anything. And Jason doesn't hate him, anyway, or he doesn't think he does, and it doesn't matter, and why doesn't Tim let him touch him? His fingers feel clumsy in the yellow gloves. He's so hard it hurts.

“Come on, it'll be good.” There's a laugh stumbling out of his chest, rasping. “I'll blow you, I bet you haven't had many people blowing you, right Drake? I'm awesome at sucking cock, you're gonna love it. You know what, you can come on my face.”

Maybe there's a word for the sudden noise Tim makes; Jason's not sure, not that he's stopping to think about it. Not now that he's got Tim's attention, that he knows he's getting to Tim.

“Or, or, you can rough me up a bit, work up to the mood. I like it rough. If you're into kinky stuff we can--”

“For God's sake, Jason, _stop_.”

It's not the authority Drake's trying to project that shuts Jason up; more the thinly-veiled panic.

For a minute they stay still, looking into each other's eyes. Jason tries to measure how much the other is turned on right now. His breathing is shaky, his pupils blown, and Jason wishes the lights in the living room were turned on, so the shadows on Tim's crotch wouldn't conceal whether or not he's hard. He probably is, Jason decides. Or getting there.

Just a little further.

“Anything,” he says softly. “Just fuck me.”

“You're fucked-up, Todd.” Tim sounds more self-assured than he did two minutes ago, maybe because Jason hasn't made a move to get closer.

He knows Tim doesn't believe it, but Jason knows there are times to adopt tactical passivity. Just because he's not patient doesn't mean he's too stupid to make plans. He'll do it if the prize is worth it. But then again, Jason wasn't the only one underestimating the other in this room. He's just the only one to have learned better.

“What are you gonna do about it?” he challenges. Not like he's taking a chance, he knows what Tim's going to say before he does.

Tim snorts, pretends to be in control of the situation. That makes Jason wants to smile, so he does. Why shouldn't he? It's going smoothly. “Just go away, Jason. I'm not gonna fuck you and I don't want you calling me daddy.”

That hurts. Like a blow to the plexus, unexpected and humiliating. Jason grits his teeth and soldiers through the pain. “Why would I? I hear you're my _brother_ , these days.” One big happy Batfamily.

“ _That's_ really not my kink,” Drake says with a look of utter, practiced distaste.

Jason raises his eyebrows. “Yeah? Here, I'll cut you a deal, I'll even call you little brother.”

He sees the kick coming; he could've blocked it. But it's better to take it, rest his hands on the floor and spit and laugh under the pain and Drake seething over him. “You have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Don't care, Timmy, just want you to fuck me up. Why don't you tell me more about Dickie-boy and you, I'm sure it's fascinating. He know about it, or it's just you mooning from afar and the entire world except him knowing your pathetic crush?”

Unfortunately, Drake must've got himself back under emotional lockdown, because the second hit never comes. “God, Jason, you are such a pain.”

“Yeah, but I'm a real good lay.”

The following silence is one of consideration; Jason knows even before he looks up at Tim's impassive expression, miles above him, and still as cool as a cucumber. Not one crease on his Wayne heir suit. Jason's suddenly reminded that he's sporting a raging erection and he's no closer than ten minutes ago to stripping. “I can put on a show, if you'd rather,” he says without thinking.

Tim doesn't even dignify that with an answer, which at least confirms what Jason thought, that his voyeurism is directed toward a select few people and isn't the general power trip that he supposes it is for, say, Oracle.

“You'll get out of my hair?” Tim probes instead.

“You think I got nothing better to do than bother you?”

“I don't know. Maybe you enjoy pulling on my pigtails.”

This time, it's Jason's turn to snort. “Whatever. Look, if you don't wanna, I'll just find someone else who will, that's all. But don't tell yourself I'm pressuring you or that I'll fuck your hit-list shit up if you turn me down.”

Tim freezes. “How do you--?”

Jason smiles seductively and cocks his head to the side.

For a moment nothing happens, then Tim growls and shoves his fists down next his hips, like what he wants is to shove his pants down but he isn't shameless enough. “Okay,” he says in a clipped tone. “Suck me.”

Jason really doesn't need more of an invitation; he scrambles to his knees and to Tim, eagerly undoes the zip, pushes the pants and the boxers down, and doesn't even take the time to look at him before stuffing his mouth with Tim's cock. Above him, Tim makes a strangled noise, and his hands wave around like he's about to fall over before gripping Jason's hair, but Jason can barely make it out it over the reverberation of his own satisfied whine.

It's so, so good.

Cock hard and responsive in his mouth, twitching when he flattens his tongue on the shaft, releasing a burble of salty bitterness in the back of his mouth. It makes Jason wish that he'd taken the time to fill his mouth with the flavor of Tim, let it overpower his smell and taste buds, make himself salivate with it.

It's good like this too, pubic bone pushing the sharp male smell into his face from one side, biting taste of precome slicking the back of his mouth from the other, and between the two, flesh requesting all Jason's attention.

He gives it his all; he wasn't bragging when he said he's an awesome cocksucker, seeing how practice makes perfect and all this shit Bats live by. It doesn't hurt that he fucking loves it, loves stretching his lips around a guy's dick and take as much of it in himself as he can, loves how their fingers wring in his hair to bend his neck at the better angle, how they thrust their hips in hurried little jerks, keening or cursing.

Like Tim's doing now. He's holding himself up with Jason's head, and his clutch is twisted enough that if Jason were in the mood, he could point out that Tim is the one pulling on his hair. He's letting out these fantastic little stammers that have Jason relaxing the back of his throat and forcing himself not to choke when he takes too much of Tim too fast, pulling on Tim's hips to get him to fuck his mouth.

“Oh fuck, _Jason_ ,” Tim says, sounding stunned and almost broken. Jason hums in answer, and the vibration makes Tim shout and ram into his mouth without Jason's assistance.

 _Please_ , Jason wants to say, or maybe _yeah_ , but it's not like Tim needs articulate encouragement, anyway, not the way his ass pumps his cock into Jason's mouth, relentless search for release.

He fucks into him hard, without regard for Jason's air-pipe or for how he's tearing on Jason's hair or for how he's repeatedly mashing Jason's nose and lips against him, like someone with not too much experience desperate to get off. Tim's getting louder, as well, groans and snatches of curses Jason's basing his efforts on. He helps along the best he can, tongue on the ridge, lips sealed, sucking until he feels like his lungs are going to burst.

There's a thrust that sends a deeper, dull ache in his nose, and sudden bitter come flooding his mouth, his throat. Fucking virgin can't even warn, lucky Jason was ready for it, so he doesn't cough, just opens and swallows, his eyes closed.

Tim's hips twitch under his hands and make as if to back away, but Jason tightens his grip. He's not letting go until he got it all, okay?

Tim must get the gist, because he doesn't try to move away again. His fingers tremble, carding through Jason's hair, and Jason's not sure what he savors most; the last drops of come he chases with his tongue along the slit of Tim's dick, or the harsh, shaken breathing echoing above him.

“Uh, Jason?” Tim tries after a while.

Jason's applying himself to suckling Tim's dick, with no plans on stopping since he's lucky enough that the orgasm didn't make Tim too sensitive for it. Tim's eighteen, he should have at least two more inside. Jason's pretty sure he's already felt a quiver of interest there, shouldn't take too long before Tim's ready to go again.

But Tim's tentatively pulling at Jason's shoulders, like he expects an answer. Kind of a shame, so Jason sucks off him one last time, slow and purposeful, and when he pops away it resonates nicely.

There's a string of saliva linking his lips and Tim's cock, and the drying trickle of come at the corner of his lips that he couldn't swallow fast enough. Pretty image. A shiver goes through Tim at the sight.

The smile on Tim's lips, pale and unsure though it is, reminds Jason of a rule he learned young enough to make a difference in his life: sucking people off makes them friendly. It got him out of more than a couple hot spots back in the day.

If he'd known getting Drake to look at him like he wasn't something stuck to the sole of a shoe was as easy as a blowjob, he'd-- chances are he wouldn't have done it anyway, but it'd have made him feel better.

Leveled the field, as it were.

“That was-- um. I think I'm kinda done.” He hesitates. His hand hovers next to Jason's cheek, like he doesn't dare touch without explicit permission. Jason wants to tell him that with the sex flush, it's not going to show even if he's blushing, so he should go for it. He doesn't because Drake radiates post-orgasm bliss, and Jason is still in the pre- throes. “What-- what about you?”

Every word out of his mouth has Jason doubting whether the kid actually _has_ any experience. He's not seriously thinking Drake's a virgin – Jason's surveillance and files show that he's had ample opportunity to score with a number of very attractive people Drake considers friends, and even if he's repressed he still used to date one of the most awesome girls to join the cape-and-cowl crowd – hot, fun, and taking no shit, a girl after Jason's own heart. But he's revising his estimate downward.

He lets his eyelids droop a little, looks up at Tim through his eyelashes in a way he knows looks good with a smile.

His lips feel numb, full. Tim's fingers brush against them, against his jaw, stroking. So tender Jason can almost fool himself that it's possessive, fatherly, something else than a teenager's wonder after a great blowjob.

“You gonna fuck me?”

The hoarseness in his voice makes Tim's hand skitter. He inhales sharply. Jason presses the advantage, arching his back to display the tent his hard-on is making in Batgirl's tights. Shows how well he could move under Tim if Tim let him.

“I--” Tim starts, and he pauses.

Jason leans back, resting his hands on the ground behind him, undulates his hips in circles like he's giving a lapdance, and refrains from humping thin air, he's that desperate.

“You have-- what we need?” His gaze is fixed on Jason's rotating hips. He hasn't pulled his pants up, either, so if Jason bends his head and squints just right, he can see that Tim's dick is showing less of a flatline than two minutes ago. “Condom and lube?”

“Drake, I've just sucked you dry and _swallowed_.” The emphasis makes Tim's face scrunch up a moment; Jason's past counting points but he must have scored a few in the last couple of minutes. “We're--” he has to stop to take a smaller breath, nipple scraping against an inseam of the costume. “We're kinda past that. I'm clean, and I know you are too.”

The lack of frowning disapproval could be its own reward, if Jason didn't have more practical matters in mind.

He feels like he's on fire, locked inside the costume like liquid abrasion.

The cape's weighting him down, impeding his movements, and the cowl and the wig – he's lost the habit of the cape, and his own was never that heavy, never that armored. It hangs from his neck like it wants to bring him down, exposing his throat and his belly in submission, and if Jason thought there was the slightest chance Tim would go for it he'd let himself be pulled down to the ground.

But Tim's not doing anything, just staring at him with that kind of transfixed daze that means Jason has to up the ante if he doesn't want the next fifteen minutes to be spent teasing.

Locking his weight, he removes a hand from behind him and raises it to his neck. The rhythm of his moves breaks a little, he can't concentrate on the dance and on not falling and on undoing the cape all at once. Now he's only mimicking a simple grind, the muscle memory sparking jolts up his thighs, anticipation coiling in his balls, and he knows he's leaking precome in the panties.

He can't see how Tim's looking at him, just knowing Tim's looking is enough to drive him crazy, so he shuts his eyes and bites his lip to suppress the plea, focus not on how badly he wants but on the cape's collar.

His fingers scratch on the material, and it takes him longer than when he practiced, but finally he manages.

The cape falls, released, and immediately Jason starts to work on the belt. It drives him insane, how close his fingers are to his dick, how little it'd take for his hand to slip...

“Gimme-- gimme a hand?”

Hitch in the breathing above at the same time as the belt clicks open, Jason can't even look before he hooks his thumb in the tights and starts trying to yank them down. It's useless, the tights resist the pressure, clinging – of course, it'd be too easy otherwise, goddamn Jason misses the Robin panties. He's ineffectively wriggling on the ground, hissing between gritted teeth, and fuck, fuck, he _wants_ , he wants it so much--

He buckles with a gasp when Tim's hands knock his aside, his eyes snap open wide.

Tim's kneeling on the floor in front of him, crouched above him, two bright spots of red on his cheeks, his eyes stone-hard and white teeth digging in his lip, like he's concentrating on solving some exercise Batman set for him. His hands are shaking when his fingertips skid into Jason's tights and pushes down, changing the pressure on Jason's cock, making it tighter.

“Nh, fuck, yeah...”

It almost makes Tim stop, so Jason bucks up again in encouragement, and the next time Tim's knuckles brush against naked skin and he keens again, Tim doesn't even slow down.

Jason's muttering out a constant flow of curses he's only aware of as white noise.

His world is reduced to the way they're helping him out of the costume, stripping the tights down to mid-thighs, the curious groan Tim lets out when Jason's cock slaps against his belly, finally freed, the way Tim looks, kneeling in his rucked-up suit between Jason's thighs.

Tim's shirt-tails fall over the opened zipper, the glint of the belt-buckle barely visible, and here's Jason with heels too high from him to brace his legs on the floor and spread out in front of Tim, feeling very much like the off-the-books gift the directors' board would send their newest CEO.

He needs something to shut up, and Tim's occupying himself looking at him, helping him back onto his knees, so he puts two fingers in his mouth. All other experiences aside, it's a safe bet that Tim hasn't had anal sex before, and Jason's perfectly all right with prepping himself if it means less waiting before Tim's cock is in him.

It'd be easier with real lube, but the lube's in the belt and he's not sure where Tim put the belt; once he's sucked his fingers as slick as they will go, he takes them off his mouth and reaches behind. A loud moan escapes his lips when he breaches himself.

“ _Fuuuck_...”

He can feel Tim's attention refocusing on him, called back from the far-away fascination he was in. Tim scrambles closer, seizing Jason's other arm to stabilize him, and before Jason knows what he's doing he's clutching the front of Tim's suit, leaning into him to make the angle easier on his wrist. He's breathing in hiccups, interrupted with the sensation of his own fingers pushing into him. “Oh fuck, oh fuck...”

He's babbling, whimpering when he can't _get far enough in, dammit_. Tim shifts, one hand spanning Jason's shoulder like to lend him strength, and he hears the sputter in Tim's throat when Tim leans forward enough to see how it looks like.

“Can I-- can I do that?” Tim's fingers dig into Jason's arm like brands. Jason nods before he realizes Tim probably can't see it.

“Yeah, yeah, you can, just, take the lube in the belt.”

He crumples on himself with the effort of talking, only matched with the effort of reining himself in, as he feels Tim grope around for the lube. He thought he was okay with doing this himself, but it's only taken Tim's suggestion to finger him to tear through the illusion, driving him crazy with impatience. Someone else's hands on him always feel so much better than his own, sliding inside him, opening him up.

“Just, please, hurry,” he mumbles, head butting against Tim's chest – how long does it take to coat fingers in lube?

“Yeah, just a minute, I'll close the lube and--”

Jason doesn't know if the sound he's making is a sob or a laugh. “Don't give a fuck about the fucking lube! Just want your fingers in me, c'mon, Drake, in. Me.”

There's the wet echo of Tim swallowing, Jason imagines he can feel his Adam apple bobbing. “Y-yeah. Yeah.” And then Tim leans over and around him, and his fingers nudge at Jason's entrance, bumping against Jason's, and. In.

“ _Fuck yes please!_ ”

Tim's breath hitches against Jason's ear, so quiet it's really just a sudden exhale of warm, wet air, pushing his fingers deeper in, deep enough that he won't accidentally take them out.

Now that he doesn't need to keep himself open anymore, Jason grabs Tim with both hands, grateful for the better hold; he's reeling on his knees, whimpering as Tim's fingers explore deeper, deeper.

Tim's careful, going slow like he's afraid he'll hurt Jason, like if there was a surer way of doing this he'd take it. His hands aren't that big, but his fingers have square, bony knuckles that feel amazing when they scrape inside Jason, gentle and inevitable.

“Come on, you're not gonna hurt me, give it to me,” Jason whines, rocking back to try and fuck himself. It's no good, Tim moves, slows him down, murmuring soothing “shhh” as he rubs his free hand up and down Jason's back, the bastard. “Come on, please, please, Tim, I'm ready, I'm fucking ready, please fuck me already.”

“Okay. Okay, how do you want it? Here, let me--”

Tim shuffles to the side, in the mess of the cape and the belt, tugging on Jason's wrist until Jason lets go, then guiding his hands to the ground.

When he understands what Tim wants, Jason lets him maneuver him until he's on all fours. His cock bobs, heavy and full, between his legs, and Jason gulps air in as Tim runs his hands up his back, pushing the costume away, baring as much of him as Tim wants. Everything else is still on, though, the bright yellow gloves Jason finds himself staring at, the boots, the parts of the costume they haven't stripped off.

Things didn't go exactly this way, when Jason had planned it; he thought he'd be Batgirl, or he'd pretend to be Batgirl, for much longer. He didn't expect he'd be himself, in Batgirl's costume. But then, Jason had a lot more experience getting fucked as Robin than at this.

He hisses again when Tim slips a finger back into him, reaches down to touch his balls with his other hand, and then leans up to bury his thumb in Jason's cleft. “Fuck, stop-- playing with me!”

The only answer he obtains is a second finger joining the first inside him, and crooking just right so Jason practically springs backward and _mewls_.

“Huh.”

The sort of 'huh' that follows mildly interesting experimentations, Jason wants to cry, of fucking course Tim was going to be the type.

He's opening his mouth to make another strongly-worded request when Tim repeats the movement, but this time kneading the knuckles of his other hand down Jason's spine – _that_ is a shout, but apparently Tim doesn't give a damn about the neighbors; he presses down between Jason's cheeks, down, until he's kneading the rim, just around where his fingers are buried.

Jason's limbs thrash, he has to stop himself from faceplanting, but even then the pressure doesn't let up.

Clever hands inside him, owning him. Keeping him from running even if he wanted to. Teasing him, and it's going to be so good when it's more than just fingers, the promise of so much better. Knowing him.

“Please, please, Tim, want you in me, take me, please” he's babbling, spitting on the drool flooding his mouth.

The fingers inside him give a stab as Tim pats his thigh with his other hand. “Yes, ah, fuck, please!”

“I didn't even know you could beg,” Tim remarks. He's _petting_ him, Jason's aware in a flash.

Mouthing off is not even an option. It's not that humiliating, anyway, so Jason takes it and moans when Tim leans over him and says slyly, “It suits you,” against Jason's burning neck.

“ _Please_ ,” he begs. “Please.”

The fingers inside him twist and push, in and out and in and out, too little that has his thighs spreading and spreading as far as he can get them.

“Come on, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” he's chanting.

When Tim straightens and something that's too blunt to be fingers dipping against his hole, Jason's this close to breaking into hallelujah.

But Tim's fingers move out, and the tip of his cock moves _in_ , and suddenly Jason doesn't have breath to spare for anything that complicated, yanno? Not when his mouth's running off and babbling and grunting and, yeah, begging. Lifelong habit.

Not that Jason minds, not with the way Tim's sliding in and in and in, as careful with his cock as he was with his fingers, all solid and slick and filling him up in a way no fingers can equal.

“Oh yeah, yeah, please, oh that's good, please, more--”

“You're-- you're really kind of easy, aren't you?”

“F-fuck yo-- oh god please fuck me.” The suggestion ends in a wail when Tim's hips roll, making him feel the jolt of Tim's cock on his prostate all the way to the stars behind his eyelids.

Tim's gasping, laughing behind him, dragging Jason onto his cock, making him take it. Tim's hands aren't big, but they're _strong_. Feels good clamped on Jason's hips, squeezing.

Every time he rams in, he brushes against Jason's prostate, picking up a rhythm that sings along Jason's nerves. Short bursts of white-hot pleasure leave him panting hot and wet in the crook of his elbow, arching his back to offer himself up, head hanging low, kind of grateful he's still got the gloves and the rest of the costume on because the floor's hard, even though he's had much worse.

Blindly, he dislodges an arm, reaching down. He moans in relief when his fingers wrap around his cock, the texture of the gloves almost enough to make him think it belong to someone else.

The pounding stutters a bit as Tim lets go of Jason's right hip and sneaks his hand beneath, searching, until he closes his hand around Jason, pushing Jason's hand away in the process. Because Tim Drake is a control freak.

That should surprise precisely no-one, and still Jason bucks into it – it feels so very very very good, and it keeps on feeling better as Tim's grip gets firmer, his grinding adjusting.

“Fuck yeah, yeah, please, Tim, Tim, Tim--”

Tim moans, his thrusts and his strokes gaining a purpose, the slap of his balls against Jason's ass getting clearer.

“You gonna-- you gonna scream my name, too?” And he gasps in the middle of a breath, like he wasn't done, and if Jason's brain wasn't disconnected from the rest of him by a haze of sex endorphins he'd retort something at Tim's mocking.

As it is, it sounds like an _excellent_ idea. Jason's enthusiastically trying to fulfill it, even if a part of him is pondering that it's kind of weird. Which, really? Like it's something new?

“Come on, Jason,” Tim breathes, and he does something with his thumb on the head of Jason's cock at the same time as he slams right _there_.

Jason spills, crying out something that he's about fifty percent sure was Tim's name, in a rush of bliss. If he wasn't already on all fours with Tim's arm wrapped around him, he'd fall down.

For a few seconds it deafens him, aware of nothing but the waves of pleasure breaking through him, obliterating every knot and sting, mouth hanging open.

Tim's thrusts are getting erratic, his grip on Jason's hip harsher but slipping. He's hissing curses under his breath, it's hot enough that Jason would love it as its own dirty talk, and Jason squirms back against Tim, clenches, and heat suddenly shoots inside him, and Tim's whine cuts off, like he's bit down on his own lip, the little freak, and then Tim slumps on top him, suddenly limp, and Jason really does topple on the ground, this time.

Game over.

They stay without moving as long as it takes them to get their breath back.

They're sticky with sweat, Tim's arm still flung over him, it's a bit close to cuddling for Jason's taste – Jason's trying to implement this rule that there can only be cuddling with people he doesn't regularly fantasize about shooting dead, but he's not sure when was the last time he indulged in it about Tim, and also he's wondering whether he shouldn't make an exception for people about whom it's mostly habit, anyway. Like really fucked-up comfort food, except with blood instead of ketchup. Not that Jason's into cannibalism.

Oh, well, if he's making that little sense, it's not worth turning it down.

Tim is small; usually Jason likes when his partner can really engulf him, bonus if they've got breasts, but snuggling's like pizza. Jason'd be a fool to reject the moment. And it feels nice to have another body so close to him, and a strong, capable hand skimming against his chest and his stomach, sending light shivers over his skin.

Especially when Tim pulls out slowly, and warm semen dribbles down Jason's hole, smearing on his thighs. Jason rolls back, bumping against Tim's chest with a moan of pleasure at how fucked-out he feels.

The caresses stop abruptly. Jason thinks about a warning growl, but his jaw feels too furry for it.

“Are you all right?” The question is several degrees more cautious than Tim's ever talked to Jason, making him sound approximately four years too young for this to be anywhere near legal, even without the adoption.

“'m fine, you didn't _break_ me.” Jason debates the merits of spewing something snide along the lines of thinking he'll be able to take all the _really vanilla sex_ Tim thinks he can throw his way, but resolves not to on the grounds that he's still buzzing with the afterglow. Besides, he wouldn't lie about whether or not someone is a good fuck, it's fucking cruel and some people need the reputation. “You were good,” he adds.

“Thank you,” Tim replies. He probably believes he's being ironic, but whatever. He's not moving away. His thumb is playing with Jason's nipple, actually; Jason wonders if Tim's aware he's doing it.

It won't be long before the position starts to be uncomfortable. They're lucky they managed to kick the Batgirl things out of the way before they dropped, else the edges of a Bat belt digging into sensitive places would've cut into their aftermath serenity. In fact, Jason didn't expect this to last half that much.

Oh, okay. He sighs, and taps on Tim's forearm, proceeding to turn around. “Come here.”

“What?”

Face to face with Tim, he can see that his little frown has nothing to envy to the one Jason pictured him with. Doesn't look as bitchy, true, but the way his hair sticks in all directions makes him look something like thirteen. Tops.

He sighs again, and repeats “Come here,” as he starts to crawl down Tim's body.

The squeak Tim lets out as he realizes where Jason's heading is some of the least dignified stuff Jason's heard this week. And keep in mind, Jason's a guy whose line of work includes making mobsters cry for their mommy.

When he's down there, he examines what he's got to work with. Tim's completely soft, but Jason didn't expect different, and he's not in any hurry. Getting off has loosened him up, relaxed him down to his bones. He can do this right.

He takes his time; cleans Tim up with his tongue first until it's nothing but shiny pale skin and scratchy dark hair, takes his balls in his mouth, licking gently. Follows the veins with a trail of saliva, returning to the head of Tim's cock and rubs his lips against it, slowly, making them soft and letting them catch as he turns his head from side to side, until they're throbbing.

He uses his hand, as well, massaging Tim's balls when he takes his mouth away, keeping them warm so he never stops pay attention to them. He presses kisses along the shaft, wet but patient, as undemanding as he knows how.

It doesn't take that long before Tim's fingers find their way back into his hair, stroking and tangling playfully.

“You really like it, don't you?” Tim's voice is full of wonder.

Jason turns his head to lick at his straying fingers. The pupils of Tim's eyes eat away at the irises; Jason nibbles on his fingertip and watches Tim's eyes blow dark.

He could tell Tim it's an acquired taste; that you can be real powerful on your knees, if you own up to it. That it's a skill of survival people without Bat-training can pull off, if they're determined enough and willful enough and with enough practice. That it's a way to show off without risking retaliation. That it's a kick and a high and a gift, when you're with someone you care about, to be able to do something for them that doesn't require anything back. That you can get pleasure from it for any of these reasons. That it gets him hands pushing on his head and petting through his hair.

The question isn't rhetorical for Tim, if Jason chose to explain, Tim would be pleased to know. Tim takes knowledge seriously. All Bats do.

Instead, he chooses to suck on Tim's index finger. He has to smile when Tim's hardening dick bumps against his cheek.

“There you are,” he says when he releases Tim's finger. Tim shifts like he's embarrassed, but frankly Jason doesn't give a fuck. Tim's cock likes it when Jason licks it hello, anyway.

Jason laps at it avidly, with broad strokes of the tongue, then seals his lips around the slit, resisting Tim tugging on his hair for a handful of seconds before going with it, opening his mouth wide and sinking onto it. To contrast with a common comparison, it's a bit like sucking on a popsicle, if the popsicle was warm, grew under Jason's attentions, and was subject to occasional spasms when Jason looked particularly hot sucking it.

It's not a race; Jason can lose himself in the taste, in the feel of it.

At some point Tim's hips start to jerk up and up for his mouth, and the hold on his head tightens, the litany of small noises higher in his throat.

Jason doubles his efforts, gives a good, hard, dirty suck with his tongue, and retreats fast enough that it's only the first drops of come he doesn't catch on his face. Eyes closed, he lets the semen paint him, thick spurts in his hair, on his nose, clogging his eyelashes.

When the other's all spent and there's nothing but the echoes of ragged breathing in the room, Jason blinks his eyes open, slow. Looks up at Tim's stunned-wide eyes. Smiles, stretching lips that will feel tender for days, reminding him of the moment.

“Thanks,” he says, half because it'll freak Drake out, half because he's sincere.

Then he undertakes the complicated process of pulling himself up. His legs are jelly, the heels are still strapped on, and all his body wants to do is go to sleep. He's convincing his ankles that tottering totally isn't a necessary part of the standing-upright experience when Drake – whom it took about five times less long getting back on his feet – takes his elbow and steadies him.

“Well, _you_ were raised right,” Jason says, eyebrows arched. “Did your father also teach you to call a taxi for the girl? Cause I could use a lift to my street corner.”

Drake backs away at once, face closed off. Yeah, yeah. Someone else should sugarcoat the truth for him; Jason's calling it like he feels it, and their clothes, soiled and all, bring back a ton of similar memories. Any longer, and he's gonna start wondering how he got paid, exactly, and then be furious for selling himself too short, again.

“You can stay the night, if you'd like,” Drake says, formally. Funny; Jason had already done his best to write him off, hobbling towards the door. Which is really fucking far. “Or wash your face, at least.”

“So you can Pretty Woman me some more, thanks, but no thanks.” There's a change of clothes and shoes waiting for him in a duffel bag bunched up in the emergency stairway. It's not like he's going to do a walk of shame to his nearest hide-out.

“We could do this again.”

And you know how Jason fucking _knows_ he's no better now than when he was fucking thirteen? Because _that_ makes him stop.

There's a second, he teeters on the edge between laughing at Drake's face for thinking that Jason is _that fucking needy_ , and handing him his soul on the spot. Maybe dropping to his knees. But the small of his back is throbbing, so that stops him from anything drastic. He turns toward Tim.

“Am I gonna wake up in jail?”

A beat during which neither of them move, and Drake just looks at him. Then Drake shakes his head, solemn. “Not unless you try to kill someone in the meantime,” he qualifies.

Of course Drake is handling it like negotiations. Makes Jason wants to check for horns and a tail, because Tim always conducts these deals as though Jason was about to demand parchment signed in blood.

That last serves as an useful reminder why he really doesn't like Tim Drake.

He puts a hand on a hip. It's not as spectacular as if he could still sway his hips, but hopefully the well-fucked look will compensate.

“I'll be good,” he promises.

When Drake looks up to fix him in the eyes, he smiles, sweet and sticky like honey.

There's no outer reaction, of course; Drake's all walled-in behind his precious adopted-son-of-Bruce-Wayne mask. Tonight, that's how Jason knows he's getting to him.

“Bathroom's first door on the right,” Drake finally says. “You can sleep in the guest room.”

“Of course,” Jason allows.

They both know before the night is out, he'll have found his way to Tim's bedroom.


End file.
